I have written for nine years of my life; long enough to backspace on my mistakes. I am writing this because if you are serious about writing, even if you never intend to publish, there are certain things you need to understand. Storytelling is a very personal action. We all strive to be proud of something we create, even if we are our own audience. Learn from some of my mistakes and explore what has gone right.

​It has been a long 365 days. Unfortunately the latter half was not spent prioritizing my personal writing. College life, education... Here are successes and failures from 2015, and where I aim to be in 2016.

In my last edition I discussed Manny. Now I am having problems. These problems are entirely my fault. Back in high school I had one art class and three crafts classes. I was great at doing things with my hands. From sophomore to senior year I went from simple wire jewelry to intricate pots. I even convinced a woman to buy my little blue bowl during a crafts sale on the spot. The pot went for $5.

These classes encouraged abstract ideas. On top of that, we had a strict deadline. Abstract ideas are what my stories used to thrive on. In Crafts II I created a handmade pamphlet with the twenty-one rules of being a Lunar Rider (professional supernatural hunter). In Crafts III I made a story vessel depicting the return of a massive alien dinosaur to his wife. Now that was fun.

Ever since I finished Red’s War and presented it to you guys I’ve had burn out with my stories. However, the recent posts about Ruby Caves are related to my work on it. I’ve finally found my voice with that story. Mutant Cowboy Space Pirate and Radiation Road are the same way. I believe I released Red’s War back in… what was it, late December or January? That’s a long time to be writing something. Another problem: my short stories are at least ten pages up now. They used to be shorter. With the exception of Ruby Caves, everything before Mickey in my STORIES menu is less than ten pages. Now that I’m trapped myself in a visual, in depth style and intricate plot lines the stories are a little longer.

You notice a pattern in my stories after Mickey? All of them deal with the supernatural. This is my burnout. My longer novels and novellas are going to take a while regardless. I’m not too worried about them. I’ve stopped making promises to you about when they are going to be released.

I think my problem with shorter supernatural, paranormal stories is world building. Some creatures don’t need explaining. Zombies, ghosts, vampires, and werewolves are so ingrained in popular culture I don’t need to worry about explaining their origins. I do have to explain where they came from within the reference of the story.

Red’s War was a story I had to write for class… Well, the original, far less bloody version anyway. That story was quick out of necessity but the story is still realistic within its own world. There have been rumors of a monster roaming around the French highlands. Jackie, a local hunter, is sent in to eradicate the creature and dispel the fear that it is a werewolf. The hints throughout the story leading up to the conclusion clearly state that something is wrong. I got through most of the world building quickly because the initial story was already written. The wolf attack on his car is an example of something added in after I presented it to class. It took me ten days to complete the story with all the added background information.

The direct reason for my moving away from the paranormal is also the most simple. I have been working in the genre for a long time and it is finally hitting me that I’ve run out of ideas. I’m human. I don’t know what it’s like to face off against a supernatural being. I do know what it’s like to have fears, desires; and what it feels like to reach out to others on a daily basis, stranger, friend, and roommate alike. Shout-out to Marcus, Roshad, and Sully- the three awesome roommates who have to put up with me for two more weeks.

Manny is a story of the human condition. A security guard on the graveyard shift at a cheap mall must make it through his first night. And then the power is knocked out by a storm. The setting alone is a perfect place for the supernatural to happen. However, Manny is a lone man against a quartet of criminals. Nothing supernatural. I’ll have a brief introduction to his situation and immediately move on to the major part of the story. It works on his fear and the natural urge to stay alive. I can relate to Manny. The first paragraph can be found in this post: see what he does? He’s watching a zombie movie. If I’ve seen a particularly horrific movie I stay up most of the night. That doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it can have an adverse effect on me.

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=The Cinnabon food-trucks are having a sale.

P.S.- while looking for the first mall image I came across a cool website that chronicles all the abandoned malls in the US. Check it out here!

At one point in any author’s life, they realize a piece just isn’t working. I have statistics for my site, and no one’s been exactly enthusiastic about Nutmeg since Agent Z got his balls whacked in episode fourteen. The series has fallen apart- and it's my fault. But it doesn’t make much of a difference. This was all just a test to see what people would like to read. Aliens visiting Earth, it’s cool and all, but the execution needs to be far better than what I gave you. I am sorry for that. I will improve of course, and that is what this website is all about. A fuck up, reflection, and growth.

I have one more episode written. Episode 18 is the final frontier. I’ll take a break from Nutmeg until I can get it truly secured. In the meantime, I’ll use what I have and start turning into a novel form. Characters won’t just drop off the map after being named (Donnie), others will actually have something to do (Chip, Donnie, and Feng), and the series will have a more focused arc. Episodes will be taken out and others put in their place; or I can leave the chapters in and expand on them.

General Mako and the agents are staying the same. So are the aliens. I’ll explain the dynamic between Archibald and Nutmeg 3/8 in depth. Agent Z won’t have a wife to go to back home and the reason he can’t go back is more intrinsic than it was in the series. There are many things that will change for the better. I’ve most definitely learned from this mistake. So don’t fret, next time is for something different.

He did have children in the prairie!

And of course the ostrich is staying.

If I come back for a season two, it’ll only be ten episodes long so I don’t beat a dead horse. The story arc would be simpler. And who knows, maybe it’s just time to let go. But would the point be if I gave up this early in the game. In a way I’m like Netflix, experimenting. Over the next couple of weeks I’m going to write three pilots for potential series. Sound familiar? This is what Amazon Prime is doing for their clients. I want to try the same thing because it’s a great model. I’ll post the pilots. The one I choose will be based off of comments. If I even get one comment, the one that was commented on will be the one continued.

Dear Reader, As I’ve said before, my mom is my editor and writing is not a one person job. However, we have both been increasingly busy. I need a few more pairs of eyes. They could help me not create titles like the one above. I’ll send you an email with an attached section of the story I want you to look at. With the document will be a question or two. Honest answers will be most appreciated and you can get your name in the Acknowledgements. I’m not asking for much. The sections of stories will be short. Occasionally there will be long pieces but I’ll give you a fair warning when that happens. Responses don’t have to be immediately but at least let me know you’ve seen the question and gotten the correct document. If you’re willing to share my quest to becoming a great storyteller, send me an email here: bluflmngo@gmail.com and we’ll get started. Thank you for your consideration, Robert Kahil

I might later. There is a thirty-eight percent chance. Anyhow, this does involve nightmares. So Freddy, please join the ride. You'll enjoy it until the fire shows up. Sorry buddy, but that part scared me more than anything too.

A feature I am working on right now is a how-to for teen authors. Sort of. Well, my blog in a much more detailed manner without the pictures. Here is a dream sequence I put in. This is an actual dream I had a long time ago. It is a nightmare I hope to never experience again.

****I was still a toddler and on my back. Strapping me to the smelly grey carpet was one of the traps the hunters used to subdue the Tyrannosaurus Rex in The Lost World. All I could move was my head; the small baby-like head with a huge mop of curly Qs. My neck felt strained. I peered down brown carpeted stairs and into the basement.

From my position I could see the computer desk with an old Microsoft from IBM. A talking macaw program was alight down there in the darkness. Three quarters of the windows were actually underground, what was left were covered by thick bushes. The macaw didn’t care. It squawked in a horrific undertone of a werewolf’s howl. Morphed by a robotic, high pitched drone the macaw went on. Calling to its master; come out, come out, come out now!

The master answered soon after. A hunched, gangly creature stepped from the short corridor leading to the back door. Uncle Ted from Bad Moon had nothing on this one. Every movement of the slavering muzzle and muscles below coarse fur was smooth. Animatronics helped the original one to open its mouth only enough to “bite” its victim before the screen cut off.

It looked to the ceiling and howled, cutting the mocking macaw short. Black talons swiped at that boxy computer. Screeching, the macaw exploded with its nest in a portly blast of sparks. The keyboard fell to the floor and shattered all sorts of keys on the concrete moldy concrete. Our old mouse hung over the edge of the desk by a newly naked wire. Without pause though and uncaring to damage the werewolf turned to me. I was screaming silently by this point. All I could hear were hissing electronics, a broken record macaw, and the endless growling of the beast.

What frightened me and inspired me the most for the future were those eyes. They were almost entirely devoid of color. A murky sapphire glared into my soul with no pupils. Unfortunately they weren’t glowing like a Blue Eyes White Dragon from Yugi-Oh! No I wasn’t spared from this creature’s dull orbs. Too give me superior terror my dream offset those eyes with an almost holy, blindingly white fur.

However those ever approaching fangs seemed to be made from the substance of diamond but drenched in not yellow or grey; but scarlet blood. No other color but the blackness of its gaping throat was revealed to me.

Each languid, purposeful step it took made no noise on the floor. Smoke began to lift around the thick ankles. Were its feet aflame? I believe they were. Maybe this was something much worse than a werewolf. Sure werewolf on the outside but in disguise was a demon. By that time I had only heard vague descriptions of Hell, the Devil, and his minions.

I could see the footprints. Hideously long and marred by a blackened substance. Sticky, tar like strings snapped away by its next step. When it reached the Asian carpeting actual flames arose. Dragon’s fire engulfed the entirety of the carpet and climbed up the stairs. I felt the heat on my skin. It burned but my flesh didn’t blacken. Nor did the second-skin fur of the werewolf char as I had hoped.

With a pleased grin it actually watched the flames take over. I could see the hexagonal-shaped mushroom puzzle a little to my right. Arms reach away and missing the exact center piece. Melting away and spurring the arsonist on. The werewolf spread both clawed hands out to its side like a crucified man with long ears. Half of its arms were in the flames but it took no notice.

The werewolf was just a few steps away. It towered above me in that narrow room of flame. A parody of The Inferno I could only guess. However at the time I couldn’t care less. Sniffing the air in a chortle of snot, the werewolf reached towards me.****

I believe the nightmares are more of a curse. However one of the points of life is turning a curse into a gift. I have the gift of storytelling. I control my nightmares.

I love the title and you guys will have to get over it. I wasn't being completely original with the title of the drawing/painting I did. The Dream Today Forgot is one of the surrealistic writing pieces I was working on. The plot fizzled out until just recently but I have yet to go back to it. I'm not sure if I ever will.

The Dream Today Forgot

Fresh loam pressed in between the meat of webbed toes and tickled the rest of his bare feet with cold. Greenish veins pulsed through the webs in the thunderous pumping of his excited heart. Rodger Nimes did not dare himself to move. This was his dream and he’ll keep it in a strong grasp for as long he could. Swim free and strong Rodger, until you reach the bottom of the river. Swim free, swim free, swim free! A choking sob of joyous laughter burst from his chest. One minute and dusty sound flowed over the wet howling of surging water before him. Birds of paradise happily cawed amongst themselves on the other side of the river. Each was adorned with a strange crown like a cockatoo but feathered with such exquisite colors; he did not believe such hues were found on those ghostly birds. Sing with the birds! Swim free in the river! Behind him a crow called out in flight. Leaves rustled off of the branches as if disturbed. Warm air carried them high above his head until they landed drunkenly into the water. They were immediately submerged by the rough current and out of his sight. He caught a final glimpse the large black wings shimmering to the south.

******

It doesn't fit the title of the drawing because all of that above is going to change. If I decide to do something with this piece. The land is going to be just a little bleaker but no less wondrous and... Worth the ride, let's put it that way.

I, whatever the hell I want. I pick the third. There are three beginnings to my zombie story and all of them are wrong. Here is the reigning entry:

***"Do you remember anything past two weeks ago?"

I mulled it over while rolling a piece of watermelon gum with my tongue. Until noon tomorrow the pack I had with me was my only source of water.***

This doesn't work. I work out suspense early, check. Snappy dialog, sure. Wordy enough but obscene- I have that too. So what's wrong with this? It doesn't make any since.

Spoiler: The plot is about one man who seeks any form of human contact after locking himself into a panic room for two weeks. His supplies (as you could see the water) are running dangerously low. Finally, at the beginning, he meets a man over the radio. They plan on meeting at noon the next day. Will they survive the zombie hordes long enough to seek refuge?

One zombie, two zombie, three... Husky?

Well, zombie husky says maybe. The issue is, if they just then meet, neither one are going to ask about memories. They are going to be really shocked to hear each other. I thought about breaking away from that cliche, but it is standard. Not cliche. So I need to start it out with something everyone recognizes from other zombie media.

A seamless molding of human innovation and nature. Today I began handwriting the story of a man who literally walks into another's shoes. Later in the story a quote you will see with my new collage appears.

"The universe revolves around the human condition but in the end the natural condition will always win."

I began the collage as a silver, red, and blue metallic backdrop. To spur my writing I needed to take an actual vacation. During Project Lift I wasn't able to create my own collage. About how my efforts effect the community around me. While mine goes on a more spiritual journey between how humans react to their environment; there's a community within nature itself.

It's hard to describe such collages but you all will see it soon enough. Art, writing, and even music are becoming a no-man's-land for creativity with mainstream capabilities. But no one can stop another from simply creating something important.

My writing may be violent at times, or vulgar, or just plain weird. None of it however does not pertain to the human condition in some form or another.

As for the story, it is purely experimental and going smoothly. Originally the plot for Mickey was supposed to be this one. However I wanted to write another horror story. It turned out well but this original plot has bugged me for so long I must succumb to it.